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Kiowa had passed his vet exam with flying colours, and as I drove out to the barn that evening, I couldn’t get it to sink in: I own a horse. I own a horse! I own a horse?

You see, what people don’t tell you is that the moment your dream comes true, you start to panic. At least I did. What had I gotten myself into? I am a nearing-middle-age, suburban woman who knows nothing about horsekeeping, or horse training, and not too terribly much about horse riding. The pessimist in me had a field day: What if he’s not as sweet as I’d thought? What if he’s a bucker? Oh my gosh, that’s what’s going to happen. He’s going to buck me off then run straight through the fence, probably impaling himself on a board, and I’ll end up nursing broken bones for the next six months and staring at a pile of vet bills that I can’t afford. The imagination is a nasty thing.

I tried to quell my fears, and set to getting to know Kiowa. Kiowa Scout. I hadn’t liked that name since I first heard it. Yes, he was a Paint, and the Native Americans were known for having Paints, but it was too predictable. He deserved a better name. I had only named cats and dogs in the past, but I wasn’t about to name him something like Rusty or Spike. Too cutesy, and not nearly formal enough. Then there was the other end of the spectrum – show horse names like Mahogany’s Mid Summer Night’s Dream, or Averti’s Mysterious Surprise. What would you even call that horse on a daily basis? Fortunately there is an endless supply of ideas for names on the web, and after a few days, I had decided. Finnegan. It’s definitely not average, but it’s not weird either. It’s Gaelic and means “fair”. I hoped Finnegan would be fair with me, and I knew I would have no choice but to be fair with him. This was the beginning of a very new kind of relationship for me, and I was going to work my hardest to make it a great one.